Page 20 of Donovan
Carefully, I reached for the knives strapped to my body, making sure they were within reach. Never hurt to be careful.
Then, without another second of hesitation, I pushed the doors open.
The second I stepped into that barn, the stench of rotting bodies nearly knocked me back.
Death. It clung to the air, thick and suffocating, curling around my throat like a noose.
My grip on my gun tightened instinctively, my other hand brushing against the handle of my knife.
I scanned the barn, my heart pounding against my ribs.
Corpses littered the ground. All looked fresh. I recognized the telltale signs immediately. Vampire kills.
Declan.
Panic surged through me like wildfire. My stomach twisted violently as my eyes darted across the carnage, searching for him, dreading what I’d find.
What if I was too late?
Then I saw him. Lying a few feet away, half in the shadows. For one sickening second, my body refused to move, fear locking up my limbs.
Then instinct took over.
I ran.
I dropped to my knees beside him, barely registering the way my jeans soaked up the blood pooling beneath us.
My hands hovered over his chest, over his face. I was afraid to touch him, afraid I’d find him cold.
“Declan.” My voice cracked. No response.
His skin was deathly pale, but I could see the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest.
Alive.
Barely.
I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat, forcing myself to focus. He was breathing, but for how much longer?
“Come on, Declan,” I muttered, shaking him lightly.
His head lolled to the side, exposing the deep, jagged bite wound on his neck.
My blood ran ice cold. The wound was fresh.
I exhaled sharply, trying to steady my shaking hands as I pressed my fingers to his throat, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but weak.
My mind raced. He needed blood. He needed help.
And he needed it now.
I slid my arms beneath him, preparing to lift him when he suddenly let out a low, pained sound. His eyelids fluttered, his breath hitching.
His eyes cracked open just enough to meet mine.
A flicker of recognition.
“Donovan…?” His voice was nothing but a whisper, raw and barely there.
